


Pater Eius

by grimsgay



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bar fights, Bigotry & Prejudice, Dorian just wanted a drink..., Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimsgay/pseuds/grimsgay
Summary: Dorian is not his father.





	Pater Eius

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting in my drafts for awhile and was going to do more with it, but I've lost interest...

Dorian has seen many run-down taverns in his time, this isn’t much different to the ones in Tevinter. It’s a bit louder, and the alcohol is certainly shittier, but there’s the same faint trace of sickness that’s been cleaned up several times over, the same buzz of frustration and testosterone, and the same sense of running.

He’s sitting, a shitty cup of Ferelden ale in front of him, when he overhears snippets of conversation. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, not _this time,_ he just wanted to sip his shitty drink and sit at his shitty seat, and maybe get a bad night's rest in a shitty bed- He happens to hear, and immediately, he _regrets_.

“Life in Tevinter’s probably much better’n this bullshit.”

“Yeah, dunno how long we’ll be safe from Templars here, even with our defenses… Least up north they don’t have to hide their magic.”

“But they’re all blood mages.”

Dorian isn’t sure what drives him to stand up, really. His feet move on his own, he’ll swear to the Maker- but he stands, ale forgotten, he approaches the two bantering men, and he flashes them a sinfully proud smile. Confused, they move over for him to sit down, but he doesn’t. He smiles, he makes intense eye contact, and he waits.

They grow uncomfortable, body language shifting to hostility, and suddenly, Dorian is in an all too familiar position of confrontation- and maybe he might argue that he’s past this - reformed and a gentleman and too classy for such barbarian displays. Maybe he wants people to think that way, but that isn’t the case. He’s missed the feeling of power he gets when he _speaks up_ , so he does just that.

“It’s not all sunshine and flowers in Tevinter, you know. Even status as a mage isn’t enough, depending on circumstance.”

The larger of the two men glares, responding with, “like you’d know.”

“I do.” And he does, it isn’t a lie. There is anger prickling in his gut as he remembers the pain and humiliation he’d felt so many months ago as his father sought perfection. He shoves it down- tries to, anyway.

The other man stands and reaches for a staff. “We don’t like magisters hanging around here.”

That- _That_ sets him off- these memories, still hot and fresh and festering wounds, tear deeper into his flesh, mauling his composure. He isn’t a magister. He is not like his father, not a despicable and controlling _demon_ \- he would rather _die_ than become what was done to him -  what is done to so many others. His fingers clench, his muscles shake with rage, and desperately, in an attempt to anchor himself back to reality, he hisses, “I am _not_ a magister.”

He’s building, building- every second feels like a decade of hate and ferocity swelling in his blood, every breath is agony- if he keeps rising, he can only fall-

“Oh really? Gonna use blood magic to correct us then?”

-He falls.

“My name is Dorian Pavus, and I am not a fucking magister!”

There is fire, screaming- it echoes through the tavern, and by the time he reels himself in enough to put it out, the damage is dealt. The two men run cowering from the tavern, and Dorian is left with a singed table- But he’d harmed _no one_ , and he is proud of that, if nothing more.

_He is not his father._

He throws his entire sack of coins onto the remnants of the table he’d ignited. “Compensation, for the damage,” he mutters, before storming out. He is broke once again, but he is nothing if not a gentleman who pays his debts.

He’s not his father, and he never will be.


End file.
